Five Times
by Wicked42
Summary: Five times Walsh made Shraeger food, and one time she took care of it. Walsh/Shraeger-ish.


****A/N: Because this fandom is lonely, here, have another fic. :D

* * *

**Five Times**

"You keep sleeping there, you're going to get a crick in your neck," he remarked lightly as he pushed a plate in front of her. Casey shifted, blinking heavy eyes, and stared blearily at the food. Eggs, or what vaguely resembled them. She made a face.

"I'm not hungry," she mumbled, laying her head back onto the cool countertop. There was a weight on her back, but she was too tired to see what it was.

Walsh eyed the trophy and said, "No, I imagine you're not." He took the plate away from her. She must have gone to his old precinct just after they locked that rich kid into the 2nd's cell. The clock read 1100 hours, and he smirked, because her milk-drinking contest had been shorter than his.

Of course, she was looking a little nauseous now, but the fact that she hadn't puked was impressive enough.

He grabbed a fork and bit into the eggs, watching her thoughtfully. She was asleep again, mouth open and drooling just a little on his counter. But she'd pushed the trophy towards him, and he smiled as he regarded it again.

Before, the trophy had been a testament to the first time he grew the balls to stand up to a superior.

Now, it signified the dedication of a new partner, a woman who'd barely known him three weeks and was already drinking a gallon of milk in his name.

This time, he put the trophy by the window for everyone to see.

Then he went back to eating her eggs.

* * *

She hobbled into her kitchen and nearly yelped when she noticed someone standing by her stove. It took her a bare moment to recognize Walsh's muscular build, but her muddled brain couldn't comprehend _why_, exactly, he'd broken into her apartment. He didn't seem to notice her, and if her pain medication hadn't worn off, she'd have thrown something at him.

As it was, she simply staggered to the cabinet by the fridge, ignoring him completely. She had to stand on her tip toes on a _good_ day to reach the shelf that held the drugs, and it was harder than expected with only one leg.

Then Walsh was reaching around her, plucking her prescription out of the cabinet and twisting it open in a swift move. He took one look at her annoyed face and smirked, then motioned for the table. "Go sit down, Shraeger."

"I'm fine," she replied shortly. It had been two weeks since she was shot, but he'd been unnecessarily clingy. She'd have to talk with him about that.

Instead of replying, he took her crutch and watched with raised eyebrows as she gripped the counter to keep from sinking to the ground. With a dry laugh, he said, "Right. You look perfectly fine to me."

She narrowed her eyes, trying to balance on her good leg, "You know, most people don't steal a crutch from the crippled."

"Most crippled accept help when it's offered," he replied, but he gave her back the crutch and returned to the stove, pushing something around in a pot. She didn't even _want_ to know what it was. She just shuffled to the table and dropped heavily into the first seat.

A few minutes later, just when the dull ache of her wound was growing sharp, he strolled over with a glass of water and a bowl of muck. She made a face at it, but he handed her a spoon and said, "No complaining. Eat your oatmeal."

"Is that what this is?" she muttered, but she dutifully took a bite. He hummed as he returned to the kitchen and began washing the pan.

He sat across from her when she was halfway done, his chin in his palm as he watched her eat. She took a swig of the water and spoke to break the silence. "This isn't bad."

"I'm a good cook," he replied.

"No, you're not," she said.

He just grinned.

"Can I have my pain meds?" she asked, nearly whining. Her leg throbbed now, and she just wanted to go back to sleep.

He looked at her bowl, deemed the amount left appropriate, and pushed over two white pills. She drained the water taking them and when she was done, she pushed to her foot and gripped her crutch again. "You showed yourself in, so I trust that you'll find your way out."

"Sleep tight, Shraeger," he said, leaning back in his chair as he watched her hobble away.

* * *

She showed up on his doorstep at 0100 hours, looking for all the world like she'd just seen a ghost. He put his gun into the back of his pants and unlocked the door, bracing himself as a gust of cold wind rushed inside. "Shraeger?"

She visibly relaxed, but he didn't miss the way she was shivering. He stepped aside to admit her and locked the door as she stamped the snow from her boots. She was underdressed for the weather, and he frowned as he realized she just had a thin nightshirt on under her windbreaker.

"What happened?" he asked.

Casey stared at him for a minute, bloodshot eyes close to tears, but she just said, "S-sorry. It's nothing."

Like hell it was. He folded his arms, "Do you know what time it is?"

She glanced at the clock, blinked heavily, and rubbed her forehead as if to ward off a headache. Her voice was quiet when she replied, "I didn't realize. I'm sorry, Walsh. Go back to bed." With a shaky sigh, she pushed past him, reaching for the door. He grabbed her around the waist and spun her back into the diner, shaking his head.

"No way you're going out there again dressed like that," he said, flicking two fingers. She followed him back behind the diner, to the wood-paneled room he'd claimed as his own. She was still shivering, drawing her windbreaker tighter around herself, as he sifted through his clothes for something that would fit her.

When the silence got too oppressive, he said, "Wanna talk about it?"

He thought she was going to refuse again, but she drew a short breath and said, "I had a nightmare. That's all."

Not uncommon in their line of work. He tossed her a pair of old sweatpants and walked to his closet to find a better jacket. "Again, want to talk about it?" He never did, but hell, women loved to spill their feelings. Since he was already up, he may as well be the man slated to listen and nod understandingly.

But what she said next surprised him. "Our last case ended differently, and he shot you." She spoke softly and he almost didn't hear. He turned around, frowning, to see her staring miserably at his sweatpants.

"That didn't happen," he said, even though they both knew the perp had come ridiculously close to it. And unlike Delahoy, they both knew Walsh wouldn't have survived the shotgun fire.

Casey drew another breath and forced herself to meet his gaze, "I know. I just… I don't want to be the one left picking up the pieces. I don't—" she broke off, swallowed hard, and choked a laugh. "I don't even know what's in your locker, Jason."

"The porn is two shelves down. You'd probably need a chair to reach it," he replied casually. When she met his gaze, he forced a smirk. "I wish I could tell you it won't happen, Casey, but we both knew what this job entailed when we signed up for it."

She was shivering in random bouts now, and he sat beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder to warm her up. She leaned against him without hesitation, and he thought that her dream must have been downright terrifying for her to be so desperate for his touch now.

Then he remembered how he felt when _she'd_ been shot, and he completely understood.

"But I promise I'll be careful. Is that okay?"

"Y-yeah," she said, but she didn't move away from him.

When she woke up the next morning, he had a plate of chocolate chip pancakes on a tray for her, and this time her smile reached her eyes.

* * *

They were a few minutes away from leaving for a stakeout, and Casey muttered a curse as she sifted through the drawers of her desk. Walsh clipped his phone to his belt and raised a questioning eyebrow. "Problem?"

"I left my lunch at home," she said, raking her hand through her hair in frustration. The witness could show his face in a few minutes or a few hours, but either way, they had to be there _now_ just in case. She bit her lip as she thought through her options, but it looked like she'd go hungry for a while. "Well, I guess I'll grab a cheeseburger when we're done."

"Might not be until midnight," he replied, shaking his head. "Here." With a swift move, he tossed her a sandwich. He'd stuck it in a tupperware container, but it was obviously something he'd made earlier.

"I can't take your food, Walsh," she said. Normally, she had no problem doing just that, but he'd skipped breakfast to finish up some paperwork and hadn't had time to grab lunch before the stakeout order came in.

He chuckled in amusement, "You do it all the time."

"Well, not today," she said, and tossed the tupperware back to him.

"Smart," Beaumont said as she strolled to her desk. "Even when we were dating, I never ate his food. It's better to keep your stomach's contents _in_ your stomach, you know?" She winked at Walsh, who rolled his eyes.

Casey raised an eyebrow, because she ate what he cooked all the time. It wasn't always the tastiest, but she'd never gotten sick from it. She was about to say so when Brown poked his head out of his office and barked, "Walsh, Shraeger! Why haven't you left yet?"

"On it, sir," Walsh said, and threw the sandwich back to Casey, who caught it on reflex as she followed him out of the precinct. "And I have two more of those, so don't think you're starving me, Shraeger."

Walsh never struck her as the peanut butter and marshmallow fluff kind of guy, but she had to admit, that thing was delicious.

* * *

There were two other customers at the diner when she arrived. She raised an eyebrow at the other people, because the last time he'd had a guest, the man had taken a shot at him. But Walsh just shook his head and wiped his hands on a nearby towel—_they're clean. I checked._

So she shrugged and slid into a free stool, leaning on the countertop. Her smirk was weary, but she carried a triumphant air and he raised an eyebrow curiously. She never could keep quiet long, and soon she was bragging, "I got him. The bank robber from 16th Avenue? He's at the precinct getting printed now."

"Impressive," he dutifully replied, hiding a smirk. Truthfully, it _was_ an impressive snag. It was one of the few cases she worked solo, but he'd glimpsed the file, and the perp was about as slippery as a wet eel.

He was about to ask how she did it, but the other two customers were watching them in confusion, so he changed the subject. "You want some food?"

Casey glanced down the counter at the other two plates. One had something that only slightly looked like sushi—how he had the ingredients for that, she didn't know—and the other appeared to be steak, if the cow had been run over by a semi first. The customers were picking at their meals, as if they didn't want to offend Walsh by flat-out refusing to eat.

"Are you going to make me something normal?" she asked, folding her arms on the counter.

He followed her gaze and smirked, "I can try my hardest."

"Then sure, go for it."

By the time he finished cooking her food, both customers had given up the pretense of manners and walked out. Walsh didn't seem fazed, and Casey couldn't help but laugh as the door swung shut. "You know, you might have a nice side business if you actually _tried_ to serve a decent meal."

He pushed a plate in front of her, and she looked down at the chicken. He'd grilled it golden brown and topped it with a kind of mustard sauce. At her words, he tossed a piece of parsley onto the meat with a wink, and the touch of green almost made the meal gourmet.

"Maybe I'm really just that bad a cook," he replied lightly, cleaning off the other two plates.

She rolled her eyes and said, "No, you're not."

He smirked.

* * *

Walsh didn't leave a spare key outside his diner, and she hadn't gotten around to demanding one yet, so Casey spent Friday morning picking the lock on his front door. Four separate people stopped, and four separate times she flashed her badge. They kept moving, and she kept trying to remember which way to twist the torque wrench before pushing up the pins.

Finally, the lock clicked open and she eased herself inside. The place was dark, but she walked with purpose towards his bedroom, peeking her head inside. Sure enough, her partner was sprawled out over his covers, breathing through his mouth and drooling none too attractively. She rolled her eyes and stepped over to him.

She was pretty sure this was the first time she'd seen him sick, an impressive feat considering how long they'd been partners. But when illness hit, it hit hard. He'd called into the precinct two days ago and no one had heard from him since. This was Casey's first day off, and she was glad she had the time to check on him.

Silently, she pressed a hand against his forehead, frowning when she felt his temperature. He shifted under her touch, kicking the sheets further down the bed. When he coughed harshly, a rattling sound that belied the mucus in his lungs, her brows furrowed.

A simple cold wouldn't knock Walsh down like this. She stepped away and pulled out her cell, moving away from the bedroom and into the front end of the diner as she called the family doctor. The man was snobbish and overpaid, but he listened to her partner's symptoms and said, "It sounds like pneumonia. I'll send over some antibiotics for him."

Sometimes, there were perks to being rich. Pleased that she didn't have to wake Walsh up for an examination or tow him down to urgent care, Casey relayed his address and settled in to wait.

The delivery boy showed up a half hour later, and she took the pills and, feeling generous, gave him an exorbitant tip. She promised him double that if he'd run out to get her a big bowl of chicken noodle soup. Thrilled, the kid grinned and disappeared down the street.

She left the door unlocked for him and took the antibiotics back to Walsh with a glass of water. The medication was prescribed to her, a simple way for the doctor to cover his ass, and Casey shook her head as she counted out two tablets. Then she nudged Walsh with her fist.

He jolted awake, eyes wide, and if she didn't know better, she'd think he was reaching for his gun. She pressed his arm down and said, "Hey, Walsh. It's just me."

He looked at her in confusion, "Shraeger?" His voice was rough, and he had the courtesy to turn away from her as he coughed harshly. She rubbed his back between his shoulder blades until he got himself under control.

"I got you some meds," she said, holding out the two tablets. "Directions say to take them before a meal."

He stared blankly at the pills, and she rolled her eyes and dropped them into his hand. Then she gave him the glass of water and folded her arms, staring pointedly at him until he downed them both. The water made him wince, and he rubbed his head. "How did you get in?"

"I picked the lock."

"Should have known."

"You could give me a key. It'd have made my morning easier."

Walsh leaned against the headboard of the bed, closing his eyes, "Maybe I don't want you popping in whenever you feel like it."

She snorted, because that was a lie and they both knew it. He never hesitated to open the door when she was on the other side, even when he'd been dating Beaumont. Instead of replying, she felt his forehead again and said, "How long have you been sick?"

"What day is it?" he muttered, eyes still closed.

The front door clang open, and Walsh jerked upright, halfway out of the bed before Casey had the sense to hold him down. "It's okay, Jason, seriously. It's just the delivery guy with your food." She raised her voice and said, "Money's on the counter."

"Thanks," he yelled back, and then she heard the door close again. Walsh dropped against the bed, holding his head again. She kept a hand on his chest, and could feel his breath rasping every time he inhaled.

"There once was a time when I had peace and quiet," he said dryly. "Then I got a new partner and that went to hell."

"Yeah, yeah," she replied, and left him there to retrieve the soup. She put it in a nice little bowl with a slightly bent spoon and brought it back to the bedroom. Walsh had shaken himself awake now, and smirked wearily when he saw the soup.

"You know, I always make _your_ food myself."

She flicked his shoulder and said, "Well, I don't like to cook."

He met her gaze with fevered eyes and replied, "I don't like to cook for people I don't care about."

And Casey smiled affectionately and said, "Eat your soup, Walsh."

* * *

A/N: I totally think he only puts effort into food he gives his friends. And you can decide for yourself if they're sleeping together by this point-I broke up him and Beaumont so you can have the possibility. :3


End file.
